


Coping (Not Really)

by Dessert_Maniac



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Adrenaline, Angst, Blood, Drug Abuse, F/F, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Questioning, Self-Harm, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dessert_Maniac/pseuds/Dessert_Maniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maladaptive Coping: ways of dealing with stress that do not resolve the stressor. Because Homura can't possibly go through so many failed timelines without losing it. Definition taken from (yeah) the internet. </p><p>Can be mostly taken for canon, but fits more with my "The Bodyguard and the Client" (either version, but more especially the rewritten one). </p><p>Warnings: cutting, drug abuse, mild suggestiveness. Trigger warning?</p><p>I, sadly, don't own Madoka Magica or anything related.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coping (Not Really)

### In Which Homura Falls Apart

 **Maladaptive Coping** : ways of dealing with stress that are counter-productive and do not resolve the problem/stressor.

* * *

“A-are you s-sure—” her voice broke off with a breathy moan. _It’s not wrong—not with Kaname-san_.

“Yes, Homura-chan.”

Everything was a blur—she had let Madoka take off her glasses—like an impressionist painting. Pink dominated her vision and ardent desire dominated her body even as she offered up weak protests. Wanton moans escaped her lips, defying her sense of propriety—or was it inadequacy who protested? _It’s ok: this isn’t wrong…_

“K-Kaname-san— _oooh_ —”

“Homura-chan, think of this as your… **reward** ,” the pinkette replied. _This is the best day I’ve ever had_ , Homura hazily thought. First, she had spent the entire morning— _yes, right there, Kaname-san_ —alone with Kaname-san (Tomoe-san had had to make up a test), then she had participated in her first-ever witch hunt, followed up by tea—her hips bucked, she no longer thought about how embarrassing this was—at Mami’s place, and _then_ —she would never be able to look at her couch without blushing anymore.

Somehow, Madoka had persuaded Homura to let her stay awhile (it wasn’t difficult: Homura was always eager to spend time with the pinkette), and then somehow Homura had ended up sprawled on her own couch with Madoka’s hands making her feel as if the world couldn’t get any better than this.

It was simply magical, the way Madoka knew exactly how to illicit the greatest degree of pleasure from—

Oh.

Wait. Her fingers froze, the truth intruding on her moment of weakness.

Reality’s a bitch, isn’t it?

Homura hasn’t worn her glasses for decades now, not since the third timeline. She hasn’t been that shy since around the same time. She hasn’t had tea with Mami in a very long while, either. Madoka doesn’t even know her in this timeline, not yet. Homura lay panting in her bed, completely alone. The only warmth came from herself: Madoka had not graced the room with her presence for exactly twenty timelines (she never lost count). The only sound in the room was her own haggard breathing—no shy giggles or delighted laughter filled the air. She was utterly alone.

 _Right. Stop deluding yourself, Homura: she will never be yours, even if you manage to save her. Besides, how could you ever think that she would accept such an **unnatural** love!_ Cursing herself for indulging in hopeless fantasies, Homura rose from her bed, shoved her wistful thinking into the cage that held other unwanted thoughts, and meticulously readied herself for her first—at least, first in this timeline—day at Mitakihara Middle School. Because, even if Madoka didn’t know her yet, Homura wanted to impress her, to be the “cool” person Madoka so admired in Tomoe Mami. _What a wonderful way to start the day_. Sarcasm had replaced the shy stammering of earlier days.

Water droplets clinging to her face, Homura traced the reflection of her face in the mirror with a wet hand. Lips that no longer smiled, dead eyes, silky black hair that loving hands had not touched in such a long time—was it any wonder that she had caved in a little and indulged in self-pleasure? _I miss you so much, Madoka. I miss your smile, your laughter, your love_. Her heart ached constantly nowadays. The only comfort she had was in those few happy memories—but even that was marred by the subsequent memories of Walpurgis Nacht and Madoka’s many deaths. Abruptly, Homura slammed her hand into the mirror, accidentally shattering the glass (she still slipped sometimes, forgetting her magical girl-endowed strength). She felt a slight pain on her palm; when she drew her hand away, there was a thin dotted line of blood where a glass shard had cut into her skin.

She stared at the cut on her palm. Vaguely, she remembered a distant timeline wherein Mami had insisted on seeing the insides of her wrists and arms; she had scoffed at the gunner’s explanation, but now … **yes**. _You were simply seventeen timelines too early, Mami-san_. Already in that third timeline a dead look had begun to take root in Homura’s purple eyes, but she had resolutely managed to bear the weight of sixteen more deaths and—in the iteration before this one—the manifestation of her best friend’s witch for the first time. _Though, number thirteen was also exceptionally painful. I guess killing Oriko and Kirika in number fourteen kept me from doing this_. Images of Madoka’s various demises assaulted her mind. She coolly locked those memories away again (but the damage was done).

Mechanically, she traced the sharp cracks in the mirror with her forefinger, reveling in the slice of pain and the red, oh so red blood that dripped down her finger. Shaking, almost delirious with this amazing discovery— _I should have thought of this before!_ —Homura dashed out of the bathroom, delighting in the pain that stung her hand when she gripped the doorknob. _Pain, bloody pain. Nothing less than what you deserve_ , she savagely told herself. _What will induce the most pain…_? Completely shoving all other thoughts to the back of her mind, Homura dashed about her apartment, gathering all sorts of sharp objects and blades and testing them on her hands. Eventually, she settled on a pair of rough scissors and retreated into the bathroom, locking herself in. _Bleed for your failures, Homura_.

The light of her soul gem took on an oily sheen.

Little rivets of blood spread from where she had tested the other instruments on her right hand, but this heightened only Homura’s fervor. She gripped the scissors tightly, laying bare her left arm. Slowly, almost instinctively, she drew the upper blade of the scissors across her pale skin, fascinated by how the skin immediately swelled in response. Hesitance, a remnant of good sense, temporarily kept her movements moderated, but soon a desperate need for release drove her to abandon all caution. Sawing back and forth served to grate the blade against her arm harshly, turning the scratch into an actual cut. Blood began to well up— _red is such a lovely color. No wonder Kyoko dresses herself from head to toe in it. Ahahaha_.

 _I do the things I do because of you, Kaname-san. I have failed you so many times; I am pathetic_. Her breath hitched, her hand slipped, and a sharp burning sensation shot up her arm. She laughed quietly, tracing with a finger the deeper cut. _That hurts like a bitch_. Curious now, she switched the scissors to her non-dominant hand and proceeded to cut into her right arm. Making a straight line with her left hand was much more difficult, and the pain was magnified slightly. _All because of you_. Escalation was easy. One cut led to two led to three led to four—once both of her arms were littered in cuts, however, Homura was left unsatisfied. _Look at all that red—it is not enough_. She hesitated for only a moment before rolling down her knee-high socks and tracing a line up from her calf to the inside of her leg with the scissors. Every wound throbbed; she counted the seconds, not her heartbeats. Her soul gem continued to darken.

 _This is all for you, Kaname-san. How can you stand to look at a failure such as myself? How can you possibly care for me? If I had not meddled_ —she began sobbing, tears coursing down her face and falling, mixing with the bloody stains on her shirt and skirt. _Cut, cut, **cut**_. Her breathing quickened, her pulse thudded loudly in her ears, and she brought the scissors once again to her wrist. _A vital vein is located in the wrist, right? I could just bleed to death. Why did I ever think you could love a weakling like me? Your love is pure—mine is unholy lust, a blasphemy_. Darkness roiled in her heart, in her soul, and blood dripped everywhere, staining the pristine white sheets and her uniform. _Red looks so lovely against a white background. Just look at it: vivid, burning, giving color to the nothingness around it_. Her eyes, once so dead, now burned with a maniacal light. Hyperventilating, the world spun—she was bleeding to death. Eventually, the scissors slipped from her slack hand.

The thud of the scissors falling to the ground drew Homura’s listless attention. _Why is everything so blurry …?_ She sank back into her bed, lying spread-eagle. The pulsing of her heart and of every single cut kept her company as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She laughed wistfully now, imagining Madoka’s horrified reaction if she were to find out. _Don’t be disappointed_ , Homura would reply. _I need to atone for my failure, Kaname-san_. The heavy weight on her chest grew even heavier. Madoka looked sadly at her, the grief in her eyes piercing Homura’s heart—except she was only a figment of her imagination. Her blank purple eyes glanced at her soul gem, realizing that she was perilously close to succumbing to despair. _I need a grief seed_. She lay still in bed for a minute—or an eternity (no, it was exactly one minute and twenty seven seconds; her affinity with time was growing)—before staggering to her feet. Every movement elicited pain from various cuts and gashes, but she felt dead inside now. The rush she had felt earlier was gone now, replaced by melancholy. _In attempting to atone for my failures, I have failed you again, Madoka. Why can’t I ever get anything right? What am I doing wrong!_ Tears pricked at her eyes again, and she once more dissolved into a fit of tears. She pressed her palms to her eyes, though her hands ached terribly and blood mixed with her salty tears, making an even greater mess.

Homura groped blindly for the spare grief seed she always left on her nightstand, urgency beginning to turn into panic as blood continued to well up from the gash on her wrist. _Nononononono_. Relief coursed through her when she felt the despair leave her soul gem just in time. _Too much of a good thing is too much_. The roses on her uniform no longer tempted her with their beauty. _Madoka would be so disappointed in me if she knew_. She sighed and glanced at her clock.

7:12AM. The ticking of her internal clock exactly matched the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. Sometimes, it comforted her, but more often than not, the inexorable movement of time scared her, for every passing second brought Walpurgis Nacht closer.

For a while, Homura simply sat on her bed, shoulders drooping and the self-inflicted wounds throbbing silently in time with her pulse. _The beating of my heart is not in sync with the passage of the seconds_. Finally, she summoned her soul gem once again and began healing herself. _If the uniforms, especially the Physical Education ones, weren’t so damn revealing, then I would not have to expend so much energy. But, it is my own fault for giving in. How much longer can I continue on like this?_ She carefully regulated her energy, economizing every last drop. _I wish you returned my love—hah! I dare call this abomination love, how **quaint**!_

This particular timeline, number twenty, was the first major sign of Homura’s descent into madness. Every succeeding timeline moved her closer to apathetic destruction and farther from an increasingly weakened Madoka, though she never again resorted to cutting herself.

* * *

Homura soldiered on, resilient.

Every time she had to negate a timeline, however, she found it just a little more difficult to accept the fact that she was one again a total stranger to Madoka.

“O-oooh! Akemmiiii-zann, I d-did not expect yah,” Mami numbly slurred, a hand carelessly waving her in. _Mami has never been so off_ _and_ h _er apartment is unusually dark._ Mami had closed the curtains, throwing the maisonette into shadows. Homura avoided looking at the triangular table in the living room, preferring instead to remain standing as she observed the blonde stumbling into the kitchen. “’Ave zum teeeea, Akemiiii-zann,” Mami came back out with a wobbly cup of cold tea. Homura waved the offer aside, so the blonde shrugged uncharacteristically and downed it herself.

“Tomoe-san, I had hoped to discuss battle tactics with you this afternoon, but it seems that you are indisposed,” Homura murmured, her arms crossed as she rested against the wall. Her tone was almost sneering. _How pathetic, Tomoe Mami_. She conveniently ignored her own moment of weakness from twelve timelines ago; death had made her cynical and bitter.

The normally poised senpai looked, to be frank, completely plastered. Silence occupied the small apartment before Mami belatedly remembered that Homura was there. A vague smile replaced the blank expression on her face, but that wasn’t any better—she looked even more pitiful, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with her hands hanging limply at her sides and her blonde curls wilted and tangled. The time-traveler looked around for Mami’s soul gem, but it was in its ring form. _I can only hope that this idiot isn’t close to becoming a witch_. She pulled out her own soul gem, but the pulsing purple light gave away nothing.

“Tomoe-san, are you drunk?” Homura asked. _If this timeline does not succeed, then at least I will know to keep alcohol far away from Mami_. Mami looked at her, confused, before shaking her head slightly.

“N-noooo, Akemi-zan. I ‘ave ne’er ‘ad…” her voice trailed off as she lost focus and went back to smiling vaguely. _Never had a drop of alcohol, then? Now I have to search your apartment for whatever foolishness you have consumed_. Scowling slightly, Homura began to search all of the cabinets that stored the blonde’s various knick knacks (the twilight did not hinder her). Meanwhile, Mami stumbled onto the futon, finding it easier to lie listlessly on a couch than attempt to remain upright when sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically leaving her guest by herself.

Homura ignored the blond and focused instead on ransacking the living room for whatever it was that she had imbibed. It wasn’t that Homura actually cared for Mami—this was timeline number thirty-two; she had no energy left over to worry about anyone besides Madoka. The only reason she bothered with tracking down the source of the gunner’s stupor was that Homura did not want to risk having Mami out of commission when it truly mattered.

 _Fool, putting at risk my precious Madoka_ , Homura began to fume as she knelt by the futon and searched under it. Her disdain grew as she heard Mami dazedly laughing above her as if she found everything to be amusing. _To forget so easily_ , Homura mused bitterly. Idly, she wondered what had made the normally serene girl crumble. _Could it be that she has discovered that magical girls turn into witches? A few iterations ago she panicked when she found out and killed—no, not yet in this timeline. Kyoko has not come around, either. Oriko and Kirika are dead already, and Yuma is safe. Madoka and Sayaka are friendly with her, keeping her company on most days; I have not given her cause to be jealous. Why, then, has this unknown factor come to play?_ Dreadful anxiety welled up in her heart as she straightened up, finding nothing. _Just when I thought everything was going smoothly_. She moved on to the small bookshelf, looking behind books and in the gap between the floor and the bottom shelf. _If there is nothing here, then I will have to search the kitchen and the rest of the maisonette._ Thinking of the kitchen and being in the living room painfully reminded Homura of the very first timeline. _Madoka especially loved the strawberry shortcake. She’d eat several slices unabashed, all the while helping me with math or some such subject_. Tension built up, her chest constricting under the weight of bittersweet memories.

A few more minutes, however, proved that searching the rest of the apartment was not necessary. Homura found part of the answer underneath the small shrine dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. Tomoe. _Perhaps today is the anniversary of her parents’ deaths?_

 _Deaths. So many deaths, Madoka_.

Homura could not bring herself to care about Mami’s pain. _At least you can give up, Mami. For me, there is no end; I wonder how you would have fared under my burden._ The time-traveler had choices, but she had no choice. A younger Homura, less battle-weary and more alive (though weaker, ironically), would have empathized: her own parents had died when she was even younger than Mami had been, and she had missed them dearly. Now only Madoka had room in Homura’s lonely (and damaged) mind.

The small black box she pulled out was made of wood, painted over to resemble a bento box. Fascinated, Homura examined the labeled vials and the rest of the contents. _Rubbing alcohol_ (three-fourths a bottle left) _, cocaine_ (completely full) _, chlorpromazine_ (half-emptied) _, gauze, and various needle sizes with syringes_. She glanced at Mami, who remained lying on the futon, apparently sleeping. _What is chlorpromazine?_ she wondered. Traces of magic brushed against Homura’s sensitive fingers. _She has magically altered the substance—interesting_.

Mechanically, she began to fill the syringe with the mysterious chlorpromazine, expertly selecting a needle and sanitizing it with the rubbing alcohol. There was no tourniquet, as she had used back when she was first released from the hospital on various medications, so Homura put down the syringe to examine the older girl’s arms. _I don’t have a prescription—doesn’t matter. I need an escape_. Luckily, Mami was wearing a frilly tank top that enabled her to easily check for puncture wounds. _Hmm, she takes her injections through her shoulder. How does twenty milligrams sound? Will that make me forget enough?_ Homura stuck the needle into her shoulder and roughly guessed how much was twenty milliliters. Then, she put everything away in its proper place and returned the box underneath the shrine. A mental image of a disapproving Madoka flitted through her mind as she slowly settled into a comfortable reclining position against the futon. Mami’s legs were just above her, and her hand had slipped from her side onto the floor. Homura maneuvered the gunner’s hand onto her head, wistfully wishing it was Madoka’s hand instead.

When Mami finally came to after the effects of a mere five milliliters, significantly less than the regular twenty-five milliliter dosage, she staggered to her feet but nearly fell over a passed-out Homura. _Waa—?_ She shook her head and stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water, then headed to the bathroom to clean up. A few minutes later, a much more alert Mami came out and contemplated Homura’s unexpected presence in her home. Unease gripped her: _how long has she been here? Oh no, she will want to know why I was in such a state_. Fretting internally, Mami floundered. _Should I wake her up?_ She settled on making dinner, for it was getting late, and waiting for Homura to wake up on her own.

Various clanging sounds filled the apartment as Mami prepared dinner for herself and one more (inwardly, she was pleased at the thought of not eating alone), but nothing reached Homura through the veil of sedation. The blonde only realized that something was wrong when dinner was set on the kitchen table and her fellow magical girl still had not woken. Apprehensive once again, Mami approached the Magus slumped on the floor. Shaking her had no effect, and neither did repeated slaps to wake her up. Apprehension turned to concern, so Mami summoned her soul gem—her little stint today had not marred it, excellent—and held it over Homura’s still body. Healing magic, after all, was the gunner’s forte.

She paled when she realized that Homura had somehow imbibed a certain tranquilizer that she was sure she had put away properly before dropping off into a deep stupor. _This is bad_. Mami immediately began purifying the toxins from the time-traveler’s bloodstream. Had she been Kyoko or Sayaka, Mami probably would have been swearing profusely. As it was, the only sign of Mami’s stress was her lips pressed tightly together. _Luckily, I happen to have a spare grief seed today_. Eventually, Homura began to groan as she returned to consciousness. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the blonde gunner hovering tensely over her. _Just wonderful—what the fuck happened?_ she grumbled to herself.

“Akemi-san! I’m glad you are awake—” she laughed unconvincingly—“I was wondering whether or not I should wake you up, but you solved my dilemma for me.” _I won’t mention anything as long as you don’t mention anything—but please, don’t leave me alone. That’s all I ask_.

Homura sat up, ignoring the blonde’s babble and focusing instead on accounting for the time she sensed she had lost. _Ah, that’s right: I took some of Mami’s medicine. Hmm, I slept well. No nightmares or wretched memories plagued me_. Her mouth was uncomfortably dry, but Mami, ever the good hostess, handed her a glass of water. The time-traveler slowly drank from it, buying time to fully gather her wits about her. She cleared her throat.

“I must be more tired than I originally thought. Tomoe-san, I will return tomorrow before your turn to patrol to discuss strategy for Walpurgis Nacht,” Homura coldly stated, rising as she spoke. _I must check up on Madoka before patrolling tonight_. Mami, however, hesitated before nodding, disappointed. _So much for having dinner with company today_. Homura tossed her hair back imperiously, ignoring Mami and acting as if she was in complete control of herself. Neither girl mentioned the small black box or its contents. “Good evening, Tomoe-san.” Then, Homura was gone, leaving Mami as alone as she had been early that morning. _If only I had thought to save you too, Mama, Papa_.

Outside, Homura pensively rapped her knuckles against the railing. Night was still an hour or so away. _Mami was able to purify the drug from my system, and her soul gem was still shining healthily when I left. That means—_ elated, Homura quickly made her way down to ground level and, after hastily checking up on Madoka, she returned immediately to her apartment to investigate where she could obtain chlorpromazine illegally. _As long as I consume a reasonable amount, the drug will not sully my soul gem. Release, however temporary, would be much appreciated_.

The next day, Homura brought to her house a black box very similar to the one Mami had. A small bit of magic helped change the powder into liquid and the time-traveler was all set. Since Madoka had mostly steered clear of her ( _no thanks to Miki Sayaka_ ) and she knew the school material for the rest of the year by heart (she had all lessons carefully memorized so as to not worry about it later), Homura had entire afternoons to herself. Usually, she spent the time making weapons or developing strategy, but now she had a new occupation: getting completely plastered in order to forget.

* * *

She made it through several timelines with her new method of coping. Whenever Madoka ended up being killed or turning into a witch, Homura found that the pain wasn’t so bad once she had the drug in her system. The great appeal of drugging herself was not only the complete oblivion it gave her, but also the fact that it did not immediately affect her soul gem (unlike her experiment with self-harm). The only real danger was addiction—the general side effects were not a problem, for once she came to she cleansed herself completely of the toxin and continued on as normal. Homura, however, was not worried about becoming addicted.

Nonetheless, one afternoon, keeping an eye on Madoka as the pinkette walked home from an outing with an increasingly unstable Miki Sayaka and the aristocratic Shizuki Hitomi as usual, instantly weaned her from the tranquilizer.

One moment, Madoka was laughing in Sayaka’s teasing grip, then suddenly the two were kissing. Homura froze, unseen, but the pinkette and blunette kept walking— _they are holding hands now_. The usual trio of girls had been walking calmly along when Hitomi had wailed about forbidden love (Sayaka and Madoka had probably been communicating telepathically), causing Sayaka to chase Madoka around and shout nonsense of the pinkette being her future “wife—” something that Homura easily brushed aside—then the delicate green-haired girl had run off, still wailing. Madoka stayed in the blunette’s clutch, laughing breathlessly before being abruptly kissed by her best friend. _No. Nonono **no**_.

Homura remained frozen on the rooftop from whence she had been observing.

_Miki just kissed Madoka._

_Madoka._

_My Madoka. Miki Sayaka just kissed **my** Madoka_. This was important for three reasons: one, Madoka was not entirely opposed to affections from another girl (Homura was still not entirely convinced that these feelings were **right** by any means), two, she had just lost the opportunity to win her beloved’s heart in this timeline, and three, anomalies still existed that could ruin everything. Shaking herself out of her dazed state, Homura hastily caught up with Sayaka and Madoka. _She’s not good enough for Madoka; she cannot protect Madoka like I do. Look at her: she does not even realize that they are being followed!_ the time-traveler fumed silently.

Homura went about her normal routine (i.e. she followed Madoka around everywhere—she had ceased to have confidence in all the other girls), but that night another major deviation occurred.

“Ne, Mado-chan… what does this make us?” Madoka smiled bashfully. “W-well, I’d say we’re l-lovers.” She stumbled slightly over the word, but delighted in its significance. A genuine smile graced Sayaka’s expression for the first time in weeks, even as guilt gnawed at her. “It’s getting late, Mado-chan. I’ll see you tomorrow~” The rookie Magus stole a kiss from Madoka before leaving. Shortly afterwards, Homura also left when the lights went out in the pinkette’s bedroom, nimbly jumping from the tree she had been to the city rooftops. _Madoka_. Her heart clenched. She ran ever faster, her human limitations long gone. The wind whipped her hair into disarray and whistled lamentations, but she went on heedlessly.

 _I, who have sacrificed everything for her, am left utterly alone and desolate_. The time-traveler would never consider abandoning the maze if it meant leaving dear Madoka behind. This meant, irrevocably, that Homura would not find solace until she succeeded in her desperate endeavor—or died. She could not in good conscious befriend any other girl so long as the guilt of Madoka’s first death weighed on her conscience. Her chest tightened, emotions welling up and threatening to make her burst. She paused at a particularly tall building. _I need not wait for death to have a respite_. Homura leapt from the building, reveling in the now-howling wind and the ground rushing up to meet her. At the last possible moment, she gracefully landed, balancing perfectly on her high heels (only after months of practice— _whose idea was it to give a physically—and now mentally—unstable girl such impractical footwear for battle?_ ).

Once inside her modern apartment, Homura began pacing back and forth. _Today is the fourteenth—nothing has ever happened on this day in previous timelines_. Considering it after a few moments, Homura nodded decisively and consumed a greater dosage of tranquilizer that night and slept for the first time in over eighteen timelines (being a frugal Puella Magi meant needing little sleep aside from her regular stupors).

She was utterly horrified to discover, when she returned to class two days afterward, that Madoka had been killed in a bizarre anomaly by the Pleiades Saints while Homura had been passed out. _Nooooo_ , she broke down into hysterics, clawing at her face as the madness reared its ugly head once more (scarring the students even further), before promptly ditching class to hunt down her prey. _Madoka, I killed you again, Madoka!_ Blood, crimson blood, once more stained her hands that afternoon. Every iteration, Homura soon concluded, brought about a greater likelihood of anomalies—especially tragic ones. After she eliminated the Pleiades Saints, Homura turned back time.

The small black box never again contaminated Homura’s mind. However, the madness resulting from the strain of failing repeatedly and from keeping despair at bay only grew with each passing timeline. Paradoxically, the more she suppressed her despair the closer she came to succumbing. Always, something went wrong. Without chlorpromazine (she never used any other drug) to give her release when she needed it, Homura yielded a little bit more to mental illness—she hated herself for it.

Constantly ill at ease, Homura began behaving recklessly. Killing Oriko, Kirika, and the Pleiades Saints no longer provided any satisfaction. Her interactions were robotic, dictated solely by patterns and scripts, not genuine: ignore Sayaka because she usually ended up making Madoka suffer more, guard against any sign of instability in Mami but don’t reason with her because she’s lost anyway, and bribe/trick Kyoko into complying with her plans. If Miki wishes for Kamijou, then she will become a witch—if Tomoe finds out about witches, she will kill everyone—if Sakura befriends Miki, she too will die—if any of the above happens, Madoka is dead. The automatic nature of her responses, obviously, did little to improve Homura’s mood. The tragedy, however, lay in the fact that no matter how well Homura knew the script, something defied her, something went wrong, something changed, and she was back to square one.

She would remain calm while around Madoka— _the seventieth timeline, I will succeed this time_ (who was she kidding? Of course she wouldn’t)—but once night fell and she set out to hunt witches, Homura pushed herself to the limit and performed daredevil antics that would have impressed Kyoko had she been alive.

 _Laughing—the sun was too bright, but that’s ok—Kyubey hasn’t approached her yet, good—pink, I can’t see pink without thinking of her—her room was the same as always, but minus the panda I bought her last time—I had hoped that that would be the last iteration—she was so happy when I gave her “Panda-san”—Miki-san was jealous—I am no longer her best friend—no, no, no—I must atone, atone for destroying her life—the horrified look on her face when she realized my hands were forever stained with blood—I wish I could also save the others_ —

Homura snarled and plunged recklessly into a witch’s labyrinth. Bizarre, lizard-like creatures scuttled everywhere the desert-like plane. She did not bother to stop time, no. _Losing control is not an option. Nor is failure. I will succeed, no matter what I must do or who must suffer in return; I do not have time to dwell on the consequences of my actions, not as long as Madoka is still in danger_. Her submachine gun fired indiscriminately. One of the benefits of using non-magically produced weaponry was that she could use up as many cartridges and guns without wasting her soul’s energy, though she would have to steal more afterwards. The witch—a vaguely humanoid shadow—reared atop its horse and more lizard familiars assailed Homura’s legs. Cuts and bites tore her leggings: she did not care and carelessly plunged on.

Sulfur and cordite polluted the air by the time the witch died. Victorious, Homura grabbed the grief seed but did not bother to cleanse her soul gem nor heal her various wounds. Chest heaving, sweat dripping from her face (though she had not drained her magic by stopping time, her energy was sapped by the intense physical battle), Homura stood still as the world rippled back into normality. _No, that is not enough. Mami, Kyoko, and even Sayaka, but Madoka especially, deserve more from me_.

Missing the adrenaline rushing through her veins, Homura set out into the evening to hunt more witches. This destructive pattern continued on for several weeks; her fellow Puella Magi began to worry for her (or rather, Mami began to worry for the only magical girl who kept her company in every timeline). Every day Homura filled her empty hours with battling witches head-on without stopping time, so when she followed Madoka around she was able to keep tight control over her emotions and did not lose it every time Sayaka (or Mami, and even no one at all, depending on the timeline) kissed her precious pinkette.

 _I may not be your best friend, much less the love of your life, but I will not let you die through one of my mistakes_. Ah, Homura. She refused to acknowledge that her obsession with Madoka was slowly but surely driving her insane. Every failed iteration, every anomaly, every passing second strained Homura’s nerves and every single time it was more difficult to find any kind of freedom in the rush of adrenaline. It was several more timelines of limited release before she began to understand that she was destroying herself. Even then, however, a blank mask hid her true emotions. Sometimes, when there were not enough witches to satiate her, Homura would lock herself up, take a gun, and test the limitations of Puella Magi on herself. Gazing bitterly in front of her, Homura would imagine:

“It’s horrible—this isn’t right, you can’t fight like that. You’re lying if you say it doesn’t hurt. Homura-chan, it’s hurting _me_ ,” Madoka anxiously wrung her hands, wanting to reach out but scared. _Even you, Madoka? Even you are frightened of me. How ironic… I, who have pledged the rest of my life to your salvation, am the only person you are truly frightened of_. PUGH. Her body slumped forward, soaked in blood. She was healed a few minutes later. Without understanding, without meaning to, Homura knew she had killed Madoka more damningly than the Incubators ever had. Tempting her, tempting her every single time, Homura went back, back again and again, but nothing, nothing worked. It snowballed.

_But Madoka does not fear you—she cares for you, she reaches out to you no matter how cold or callous you are. How could you possibly doubt her?_

_I doubt her because I no longer know if she is real or if I am truly insane. I doubt her because I do not know if this so-called “love” I have for her is real. Am I capable of feeling love? How can she love me, how can I love her if I hate myself? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But that’s ok. I’ll keep going. Somewhere, somehow, sometime, Madoka will be saved. And then_ —she shot herself one more time, reveling as the surge of desperate adrenaline and the overwhelming, basic need to survive momentarily blotted out everything else.

Staggering to her feet, absently pressing a grief seed to her soul ( _miserable, wretched soul: how do you live? How do you survive?_ ), Homura stared into the red eyes of the curious Incubator in front of her. He swished his tale tauntingly, head tilted in a manner that Homura would gradually, unconsciously, begin to mimic. The time-traveler flipped her hair almost carelessly. The madness receded at her insistence. Every time she shot herself, every time she plunged recklessly into labyrinths, Homura felt the madness back off, satiated, and she found it easier to control her emotions. Homura felt **human** again. Her maladaptive coping was deplorable, festering in the back of her mind, but she ignored it because it allowed her to once more interact more or less normally with the others. She never quite managed to return to her original personality—no, she was too scarred for that—but she was no longer as robotic as before. _There will be consequences, Akemi Homura. Humans are not designed to function normally after severe trauma—this “calm” you feel will not last_.

“One more timeline—that is all I need.”

Of course, one timeline became two became four became eight became sixteen became— _Madokami_. In the end, it wasn’t the time-traveler who found the solution. Homura didn’t know—but she did—and a little over a year later, a benevolent entity put an end to the spiral.

Just, not perfectly. The damage festering in her mind would have to be dealt with, eventually. Madoka could not save Homura when thousands of magical girls also cried out for release. She chose to save the magical girls.

But, it was enough.

She had faith in Homura.

**Author's Note:**

> First: the cutting scenes are lifted from my own personal experiences, just enhanced because Homura's more messed up than I ever was. 
> 
> Second: the drug abuse and adrenaline-rush parts were written with extensive creative license and help from the internet. Excuse me for not being perfect, :/
> 
> Third: I am definitely NOT insulting any religion/belief/etc. I just figured that a teen would have trouble accepting his/her sexual orientation, especially considering that in canon Homura originally came from a Catholic school in Tokyo.
> 
> Fourth: Please give me feedback! I'd like to know what works and what doesn't~


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